The White Swallow
by Talented but Lazy
Summary: Scotland never thought that his disaster would end so beautifully. One-shot


A red-haired man is sleeping on his armchair.

He has apparently fallen asleep while he is watching TV with a still lit cigarette between his fingers.

The cigarette falls out of his hand. The carpet inflames. Soon the thin flames grow bigger. They reach the table, then a chair, then the sofa...

Everything is in flames now, and their hot tongues begin licking up the armchair. The man has started choking on the thick smoke. It is really hot now and he feels he is suffocating.

His eyes finally flutter open, wide with fear. He has recognised the smell. The red-head's mind is still dizzy from sleep and is fogged by the suffocating smoke.

Instinct makes him take out his phone and dial the first number that turns up. By mistake, he dials up 'Canada' – he called him just an hour ago.

Fortunately for the man, the Canadian and his brother are staying in the neighbourhood.

'H-Hello?' the man barely chokes out.

'Good evening. Matthew s-speaking, eh.' a quiet voice answers.

'C-cawl h-help p-please' he starts coughing uncontrollably.

'Eh? S-Scotland? Wha-What is happening?'

'H-h'lp please...a-a need-' the phone suddenly hangs up.

The Canadian man gets very worried. He barely knows the Scotsman but he is too kind not to do anything.

He quickly runs to the next room and calls for his brother. At first, the man does not want to go anywhere, but then the Canadian tells him it would be very heroic to rescue someone from a fire.

The two brothers put on their jackets and run to the Scotsman's house as quickly as possible. One of the rooms is lighting the whole street with bright light, only to be almost clouded by the thick black smoke coming out of the window.

The two blond men burst into the house. There is no fire here yet. They run up the stairs. The corridor is starting to fog with smoke. The brothers quickly find the Scotsman's bedroom. They kick the door down and enter a burning hell.

'Matt! Call the firemen, I'll take him out!' the taller of the two yells at his brother.

'A-Al...I can't leave you to do it a-alone!'

'No, Matt! **I** can do _this_ but **you** have to call the fire brigade!'

Matt nods reluctantly and takes out his mobile phone to call the emergency services as he rushes to the window in the corridor for better reception.

Meanwhile, Alfred has made his way through the blazing flames to the red-haired man who has lost consciousness by lack of oxygen and has caught on fire. The blond throws his jacket on him to extinguish him.

Perhaps too late and the damage is done, but he has no time to think of that. Alfred throws him over his shoulder and starts struggling his way back to the door through the inferno. Only the adrenaline running in his blood gets him to the door. His brother helps him get the man out of the house as the fire takes over the whole place.

Finally the emergency services arrive and the three men are taken to hospital as the firemen fight with the hellish fire.

The drive to hospital seems long and torturous.

The ambulance stops and they take the Scotsman to the emergency room. The brothers are taken for an examination.

The doctor insists that they stay for the night in case their lungs are damaged. Alfred, who has inhaled a lot of toxic smoke, has to breathe oxygen, despite his claims to feel perfectly. He persists the doctors to pay more attention to his little brother, who has a headache and cannot calm down from the horrible image of the fire engulfing the house...

Two days later, Matt goes to visit the Scotsman.

He is on systems and is on artificial respiration. A machine is measuring rhythmically the slow beats of his heart. His body is covered in poultice under bandages, only his face is visible.

The Canadian has brought a simple bouquet with a get-better card. He places the flowers in a vase on the small table next to the bed.

Matt sits on a chair next to the bed and watches his chest rise and fall by fits and starts. Every time a rise lingers, the Canadian's pulse jumps slightly.

He hardly knows the red-head; they have not probably spoken more than a hundred words to each other. Yet the Scottish man called _him_. Matt could not know that that was pure coincidence.

He sits there, observing the heavily sleeping Scotsman as the hours roll one after the other.

Soon a nurse comes in, claiming that visiting hours are over and asks him to leave. Matt does so, although half-heartedly.

The Canadian continues visiting him and bringing a simple bouquet every time.

On the fifth day, the Scotsman's pulse increases. Matt, who has fallen asleep, wakes up by the faster beeping. He glances at the red-head.

His bright green eyes are open and he is looking around. His eyesight is blurred and even the soft colours of the hospital room hurt his eyes, so he shuts them. He wants to ask where he is but he finds out that a mask is attached to his face, helping him breathe. He tries to move despite the pain but his every muscle is as heavy as lead and unable to move. He squints his eyes again, the light not hurting his eyes as much, and his gaze falls on a blurred silhouette sitting next to him. He blinks a few times, trying to figure out who the silhouette is. He seems familiar...

Matt is looking at him anxiously, hoping he will stay in consciousness. 'S-Scotland?'

That soft quiet voice...

'C-can you see m-me?'

The Scotsman continues staring at him, trying to focus his eyes and remember...He closes his eyes for a minute and flames engulf him, so he opens them wide again.

'If...If you see me, blink twice...please...'

Yeah, he can see him... but his name keeps escaping his mind, no matter how hard he is trying to recall it.

The man on the bed slowly blinks two times. Matt sighs with relief. 'Do...Do you know who I a-am?'

Another two slow blinks and the Canadian feels slightly happier. 'A-and can you re-remember my...', he slightly hesitates before finishing his question, '...my n-name, eh?'

Only one slow blink. But suddenly the name appears in the Scotsman's mind. He blinks again, making Matt's heart pump faster. A very few people notice him, and even less remember his name.

Matt gets up and gently puts his hand on the other's.

'I'll h-help you get better, eh.' he says with a timid but sincere smile. The Scotsman blinks as much as he can, trying to show his gratitude in the only way he can right now.

The doctor who took care of the badly burnt man enters the room. 'Good afternoon, Mr... Matthew Williams, was it?'

The Canadian nods.

'It is nice to see that Mr Docharty has a visitor every day. Are you his relative?'

'N-no, eh. Just a friend.'

'Well, I'd love to have a friend like you. You and your brother saved him at the last moment. Two more minutes and I'm afraid we wouldn't have been able to save him.'

For some reason the thought of the Scotsman passing away made Matthew's heart sink. 'Will he-he get better soon, eh?'

'I cannot tell you for sure. He is really badly burnt. I am also afraid he will have permanent scars.'

A short uneasy silence ensues. The doctor changes the subject, 'Tulips this time?' he asks, gesturing to the flowers on the night table.

'Eh?' the Canadian does not get it at first.

'The flowers you have brought today.', he specifies, then adds, 'They are a symbol for new hope for life in my country.'

Matthew raises his eyebrows in surprise, 'Oh? And where do you come from, if you don't mind me asking, eh?'

'I am from Bulgaria.', the man smiles modestly.

The Canadian thinks for a second, careful not to confuse the country. 'That is in Europe, isn't it, eh?'

The doctor's smile grows, 'Yes, it is.'

Matthew smiles too and looks down to the Scotsman, whose hand he is still holding. Their eyes meet.

'We are going to try and see if Mr Docharty is able to speak tomorrow.' the doctor says as he walks to the window.

'O-okay...' Matt replies, breaking the eye contact and glancing at the Bulgarian.

'Ah!'

'Is something wr-wrong, eh?'

'No, but I think you would like to see this, Mr Williams.'

The Canadian lets go of Alastair's hand and goes to the window, where the doctor is pointing at something, 'See that white swallow?' he asks excitedly.

Matthew finally sees a swallow, white as snow, swooping through the sunny air. He has never seen anything like it and he almost automatically takes out his mobile phone, zooms in on it and takes a good photo.

The doctor continues gazing through the window after the small bird, which is flying away until it hides behind the trees. The Bulgarian does not move his eyes from where the swallow has disappeared, as if he is in deep thought.

Matthew turns to the Scotsman. Both of them are confused by the man's behaviour.

'I've never thought I would see it... and I'm not even home...' the doctor mutters quietly to himself.

'Ex-Excuse me, Mr...'

'Doctor Dimitrov.' the doctor answers softly.

'Right...Excuse me, doctor Dimitrov, but...eh...' he is not sure how to formulate his question. He murmurs something, the only word distinctive is _'swallow'_.

The doctor smiles again, 'It is good that you took a picture of the bird. In my country, we believe that a white swallow appears once every hundred years. If someone ill sees it, they will recover fully, now matter what their condition is.' Dimitrov lets out a small laugh at Matthew's surprised expression.

'Yes, I know that I am a doctor and that I am not supposed to believe in such stories. But the white swallow is a symbol of hope back in Bulgaria, where we know that hope dies last.

'Show the photo to Mr Docharty, it is beautiful even if it does not help.'

And with another smile, he leaves the room.

Matthew blinks a few times and looks at the photo.

The little bird really is beautiful, it looks so fragile, just as hope itself...

The Canadian sits back on the chair next to the bed, 'Would...Would you like to see the picture, eh?'

No reply for about a minute. Then Alastair blinks twice. The blond gets up and brings his mobile phone closer to the other's eyes. Everything is blurry for the red-haired man, but he somehow sees the little white swallow clearly. The image gets sealed in the Scotman's mind.

Days pass and turn into weeks. Every day Matthew visits the Scotsman. Alastair recovers miraculously fast. Every day he asks his friend to show him the picture of the white bird of hope.

While he was pinned to the bed, Alastair's strong feeling of gratitude towards the man who saved his life grew into something more. In the last two weeks he couldn't wait to to see the Canadian's kind smile and the new simple bouquet, which became more complex.

On the other hand, Matthew grew fonder with every next visit. He felt uneasy when he couldn't see Alastair's stunningly green eyes.

Today is the last day and Matthew is helping Alastair gather his things. They go to the reception where they sign some documents. Finally, Matthew drives the Scotsman to his house, which has been completely rebuilt.

The Scotsman cannot believe his eyes. He hasn't expected to be able to go home yet, as the fire has burnt down his entire house.

'Did-di' you dae awl ae this?' he stutters with a very hoarse voice, still damaged by the poisonous smoke.

'Y-yes, eh. I-I promised you to help you, eh. So I asked A-Alfred to repair the house. O-Only the best of his and mine workers worked here, eh.' the Canadian smiles warmly, a slight blush covering his cheeks.

Alastair just sits speechless in his seat. He is sure he would never be able to repay Matthew completely.

'Let's get you in, shall we~?'

Alastair nods and the Canadian helps him out of the car, takes his things and they slowly reach the door.

The Scotsman takes his things from the other and opens the door. He puts the little luggage inside and comes back.

'How aboot ye c'me tae visit me the 'morra~?', he asks softly.

'I'd love to, eh.' Matthew smiles wider, his blush getting a shade darker.

'C'me it noon' Alastair says and hugs him.

The Canadian is surprised at first but then returns the hug, memorising the warm feeling.

They break the embrace and Matthew drives away, his heart light with happiness and excitement for tomorrow.

The Scotsman closes the door and sits down on his new sofa. How could such a horrible disaster lead to such a nice friendship? And who knew, from this friendship might bloom a beautiful flower of love, perhaps?

Alastair keeps that nice thought as he takes out his mobile phone to look at the white swallow – the symbol of hope and a new beginning for him.


End file.
